


...a walk...

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Dress, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Harassment, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Older Man/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27882654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: After threatening letters arrive at home and work, Gil and Malcolm go for a walk.For Dress to Impress, written Dec. 2020.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15
Collections: Malcolm Bright but instead of Suits it’s Dresses





	...a walk...

**Author's Note:**

> a gigantic thank you to Hannah_BWTM for brainstorming and providing feedback on beefing this up to get this to done

Gil pads down the stairs from the office to find his partner hunched over the counter, olive jersey of his dress lax at his knees, black open sweater swallowing his hands and most of the other material. He'd put money on Malcolm still staring at the same sheet of paper as if answers would miraculously materialize from the meager text. The kid would stay there the whole night if left uninterrupted.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Gil asks, hugging Malcolm from the side. His fingers dip into the soft sweater knit and rub Malcolm's waist.

"Probably for the best." Malcolm rests his head on Gil's shoulder. Gil kisses the crown of Malcolm's head and Malcolm slips away to the door to put on his shoes.

 _NOTICE_. Gil closes the folder and slips it into one of the kitchen drawers so it won’t be the first thing the kid sees when they get back. Malcolm works around him, putting his pills and a couple bottles of water into his pack and looping the one-shoulder bag over his head. Gil adds his leather jacket over his sweater and pulls on his sneakers. When Malcolm leads the way, they leave the loft.

The late fall air nips at Gil's ears, trying to chase him toward winter, but he runs warm and is unaffected. Malcolm walks beside him, hands deep in the long sweater's pockets, eyes drilled into the ground. The decorative rivets studding Malcolm's grey denim, zipped high tops sometimes catch each other in a soft _clink_. Gil lets Malcolm's feet pace their way through his thoughts, giving him space to process.

There’s nothing new about the street outside their loft. Gil busies himself taking in every detail, trying to find some smidgen that’s different, but it’s all the usual. People’s faces are the only distinguishing element, yet they’re all tucked into something, more interested in their personal bubbles than the street around them.

"You're the only person who's ever wanted me for me and nothing in return," Malcolm admits, drawing Gil back from perusing the street. Gil offers a hand, but the kid doesn't seem to want to take it, so he slides it into his jeans pocket instead. "Every time I think I've blocked everything, he comes slithering back in."

"We could get a restraining order." Something Gil's offered a half-dozen times but thinks maybe it might stick this time. It's the only thing beyond Martin's death that he has any hope in ending this.

Malcolm shakes his head. “Would only provoke him."

"We — "

"I don't really wanna talk about it,” Malcolm brushes off the conversation and wraps his arms tight around his middle, bottom of his sweater going with them. The jersey flies around his knees, momentum swinging it stronger than a breeze.

Silence follows them the whole trek to East River Park. Gil steers Malcolm around the occasional passerby, but otherwise they move independently, caught up in their thoughts.

The chirp of Gil's ringtone splits the air. "Take it," Malcolm says.

Gil doesn't find it important at the moment, but he listens. Doesn't recognize the number. Wants to hit the button to ignore it yet answers. "Did you get my note, Lieutenant?" creeps through the phone.

Lightning rage races up Gil's spine, replacing his voice with a growl that punches through the line. "You don't call this number, you don't call your son's, you don't send things to our home, our work, you don't — " His words disappear from his tongue when Malcolm's wide eyes look back at him in shock, tremor moving from his hand up his arm. Martin fills the air with blathering words that don't mean anything beyond infecting his son with his voice for the first time in a month. Only caring about his partner, Gil ends the call and silences his phone. He reaches for Malcolm, but the kid picks up walking faster as if he could escape the unseen man.

By answering the phone, Gil practically fed Malcolm back to the monster. He’s had the same block lists that Malcolm applied for the past month, but Martin keeps number hopping to skirt around it. Where Malcolm can block all calls from unknown numbers, Gil's work means he can't do that. It's been a few months of Martin trying to weasel his way in through increasingly aggressive means since Malcolm cut off contact — they need the restraining order. It's what Gil's been trained to use, but without Malcolm's agreement, they're at an impasse.

Fingers flexing into a fist and open again, over and over, he wants to punch something. He thinks of a round with the heavy bag, a set of pads, _something_ to keep him away from exploding on the street. Working the tension out of his knuckles, he re-centers so he doesn’t escalate the situation any further.

Reaching the park, Gil heads for their usual benches near the bridge and sits, but the kid doesn’t sit beside him. He looks up to Malcolm fidgeting at the end, sweater covered hands kneading the arm of the bench, still full of tightly wound energy. "I know you want to sit, and it's one of your favorite things, and I want to, I do, but I can't yet. I need to keep moving,” Malcolm rambles, rocking against the end of the bench.

Gil nods, knowing the kid's on edge. Malcolm's dress catches on the bench and he screeches, flying around, arms out and eyes wide, bouncing looking for an assailant, an escape. “It’s nothing,” Gil assures, palms down in a calming motion. Malcolm’s eyes keep darting. “Go,” Gil instructs, reaching for the pack. “Take a minute.” The pack slides over Malcolm's head and he's off.

Gil watches Malcolm pace the trail upriver, shaking and skittish. The kid seems more anxious since they left the loft, like the walk has been counterproductive. Hearing from Martin certainly wasn't a help. Gil's fielded a few calls from him in the past month and canned his voicemails after his last method to reach Malcolm disappeared, but he hadn't thought about it in the moment of answering the phone. They’ve dealt with so many intrusions from Martin over the past few months that it’s nearly as exhausting as dealing with the man in person. He keeps having to remind the both of them that they’ll be better off once things settle. Whenever that ends up being.

Letting out a long, frustrated breath, he ignores the urge to take Malcolm's pills out for him, have them ready for when he gets back, so he doesn't impose on his independence, his choice. He stares out at the river instead, watching his partner pace out of the corner of his eye. Malcolm isn't disturbing anybody, no one's giving him a hard time — Gil can wait.

Malcolm’s laps are tiny figure eights, infinite loops on a linear trail like the space doesn’t particularly fit his needs. He hurries along in a clip, gesticulating around him giving a lecture to the squirrels hiding in the trees. Maybe a squirrel army would have a chance at stopping Martin. Nothing else seems to be able to hold the red line as it billows from its epicenter out into the city. Gil’s willing to try anything at this point.

As Malcolm walks back, Gil hears the rivets brushing together on his shoes before he sees him, his steps more shuffle than stride. Malcolm's arms are stiff at his sides, pushing the pockets toward the ground. Gil wants to scoop him into a hug, wrap him in more soft materials, give him a safe place to let out the hurt he's carrying.

Malcolm's fingertips emerge from his sweater sleeves and fidget on the arm of the bench. "Can we walk back across town?" he asks, picking at the skin around his thumb. He shudders in a deep breath and a second.

Gil hands his pack up in agreement. Malcolm retrieves one pill and sips some water before slipping the pack over his head again. He gestures the water bottle toward Gil. "Want some?"

Gil takes a swallow and tucks the bottle back into the pack.

"Has he done that before? Dr. Whitly?" Malcolm asks, his breaths more audible than usual.

"Yes."

Malcolm looks at the ground. "I'm sorry."

"Kid — "

Malcolm shakes his head. If Gil could only get him to talk about it rather than internalize it. "You could have told me," Malcolm says quietly.

“I can’t block all unknown numbers like you,” Gil admits. “You’re right — maybe I should have told you.” Much as he wants to protect the kid, he can’t argue any differently.

They mosey back the way they came, this time walking on the opposite side of the street. The same print shop advertising fifty-percent off greeting cards no one buys, the same liquor store with metal bars in its front windows, the same Mexican restaurant wafting onions and refried beans into the street, but up close to where Gil can nearly touch and taste. The same people trapped in their bubbles, beelining to their destinations, Gil starting to feel like he may be trapped in his own, too.

The same weight on his shoulders, threatening to snap the bones and drop into his chest, ripping his love from him. As long as they're overshadowed by the vile man, the fear of interference remains. His partner's health is at risk, and he won't chance that. Seeing Malcolm in so much distress makes Gil feel sick. The passing smell of rotting garbage doesn't help.

One of Malcolm's hands sneaks out of his deep pockets and slides into Gil's. Gil squeezes it and they keep walking, fingers loosely connected. It dissipates the feeling of drifting on his own, gives him his love to latch onto.

"I'm having a hard time right now," Malcolm quietly admits. He doesn’t make eye contact — they just keep walking.

“You know that’s okay? Expected?” Gil looks over and quells the urge to smooth back a few locks of the kid’s hair flying in the breeze. Identical notes that made it into their home and workplace and an unexpected call meant to do harm had all invaded their semblance of safety. He’s even having a harder time than usual, his patience running thin.

Malcolm nods a little and lets out a long breath. “Yeah.”

“Whatever you need.”

“I’d like to watch the sun set with my partner.” Malcolm gives a small laugh.

“The pier?”

“If you won’t be mad for walking all over the city.”

Gil can just about spot a smile at the corner of the kid’s mouth. “Whatever you need. It’s not that much further past home, anyway.”

They meander together, plowing through the streetlights when they can, taking comfort in being beside each other. By the time they get to the park, Gil is sweating, but Malcolm is shivering.

Gil sits on a bench as Malcolm wanders after a Canadian goose, admiring from a respectful distance and talking to them. Malcolm's probably sharing similar chatter as he does with Sunshine, being friendly and calming himself at the same time. They hiss at him and come within snapping distance of his hem. He backs away with a smirk, returning to the bench.

Malcolm sits lengthwise, leaning his back against Gil’s shoulder and putting his feet up on the slats. His knees curl up on the bench. Overheated, Gil takes off his jacket and offers it to Malcolm. Malcolm drapes the leather over his bare legs and goes through his nightly routine of medicine, handing his bottled water to Gil to finish.

“Feeling a little better?” Gil asks, fingertips lightly massaging Malcolm’s scalp.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe one of these days we go out on the water before the season closes.” Gil looks out at a boat on the river, imagining he and Malcolm inside. He’ll pilot, but he can see his partner laying out relaxing while he steers to their destination. “You can bring your book, and we’ll pack a picnic, maybe some wine…”

"Maybe something to talk to Gabrielle about." Malcolm slips his hand over Gil’s. “But I will.”

Malcolm presses a few kisses to Gil’s palm, and Gil rubs the scruff at his partner’s cheek.

"How do you want to play tomorrow?" Malcolm asks.

"Pretty sure that's my question to you." Gil chuckles. "I can have extra boots if we head to a scene."

"It's not necessary,” Malcolm’s quick to decline.

"He's working with somebody," Gil reminds him. "You're a — " he stops as Malcolm shakes his head and tries an alternative approach. "How can I help you feel safe at work?"

Malcolm shrugs. "If any more of these come — "

Gil rubs Malcolm's shoulder. "Reception will gather them up — "

"I might need a wide berth."

“You can have my office, go for a walk, head home if you need…”

“It’s tough if it’s triggering — I might need your help. Yes, I know it's coming this time," Malcolm rambles, his anxiousness spilling out. "But who knows what will be inside, and..."

“What can I do?” Gil asks and stays quiet, intent on listening to whatever Malcolm needs in his rare request.

“Walk with me if it’s minor. Take me home if it’s not.” Malcolm rubs his forehead. “And I’m gonna need an hour and a half in the day to head to therapy.”

None of the team needs to clear the time, but they usually tell him anyway. "Of course.”

Malcolm shivers against the bench. “Shit, it’s cold.”

“C’mere.” Gil pulls Malcolm into his chest to share more of his body heat. "He's trying to get under your skin."

Malcolm huffs a sarcastic laugh. "It's working. I don’t know if I did those things.” He sounds confused, anxiousness still restless under the surface.

“You couldn’t of — you were in college,” Gil quickly reminds him. _NOTICE: Murderer Within NYPD’s Ranks_ remains firmly printed in his brain, and he knows the kid’s seeing it on repeat. The photo below it was of a late-teenage Malcolm — he could tell by his build and new part in his hair. Already away from his father’s influence, there's no chance the photo's real. Martin's succeeding at being a nuisance again, a detriment to Malcolm's health, but what's the motive?

“I can’t _remember_.” Words emerge from Malcolm's pensive face.

“Your father was in Claremont, you were in Boston — you know they were doctored.” Gil tries to link together the facts to appeal to the kid’s investigative nature and pull him from the spin.

“The scalpel is very convincing. The photo — I-I can’t remember when it was taken. How could I forget?”

“You’re gonna beat yourself up over every photo you don’t remember? In this day and age?”

“One where I’m committing murder seems pretty important,” Malcolm scoffs.

“You didn’t _do_ it.” Gil can’t prove it right then on that park bench, but he knows it’s been manipulated. Knows further investigation will prove it’s a mashup. Knows the tag of _< 3 DW_ has Martin's signature all over it with Malcolm's explanation that Daniel Hale Williams had invented open heart surgery, Martin again trading coded messages with his son in some sick cat and mouse game of special shared memories to manipulate him and go unnoticed by others. None of it's real — the chaos, the pain is what Martin craves.

“I don’t know. That’s just it — I don’t know.” Malcolm sounds defeated, his shoulders slumped to match.

“Because it didn’t happen. You removed yourself from a difficult situation with your father, and he's going to use any method at his disposal to get to you until there's something in place to stop him." It was hard enough for Malcolm to distance himself from Martin again — Gil needs the antics to end. They’re an ongoing reminder of his failure in reconnecting them.

“Gil.” Malcolm clasps Gil’s hands. “I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

Gil pinches his lips together. It's not the answer he wants and arguing about it right now will make an awful day worse. He wants Martin out of their lives forever, but it’s not his call to make. He doesn't even know if that's possible.

“If anything else happens, we deal with it.”

“Kid, it was a death threat that sent you bolting out of the precinct into traffic. He's not going to stop.” _Turn yourself in, or next time will be deadly_. Red ink brighter than would come out of any artery. Malcolm getting triggered with the same message again inside their front door when Gil collected him and took him home.

“I wasn’t paying attention — “

“That’s not my point.” Gil squeezes the bridge of his nose to keep from getting agitated. “We deal with it now _and_ if something else happens. I'm not going to sit back and let him hurt you. You know — "

“I _can’t_ talk about this any more now,” Malcolm raises his voice. The slight tremor in his hand reappears against Gil's leg.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean right this minute.” Gil rubs the back of Malcolm’s neck.

“It’s so hard, Gil.” Malcolm puts both of his hands over his face, rubs his temples in time with his breathing.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m doing what I need to do, but fuck, it’s like I’m still paying for my existence. I don't want to deal with this."

“It’s not your fault, kid.”

“I know.” Malcolm’s voice quiets a little. “The first year of my life I can confidently say I know that.”

Gil tips Malcolm’s head up and kisses him, catching his bottom lip and giving it an extra caress with his lips. The kid lays there quietly, seemingly lost in his head. “How about the sunset?” Gil asks.

“That’s for you,” Malcolm says and snuggles his face into Gil’s middle.

“Oh, really, huh?” Gil chuckles and ruffles Malcolm’s hair. “C’mon, turn over. It’s beautiful.”

Malcolm shifts and they take in the bright yellow just above the horizon, the orange that streams out on either side, and the purple that takes up most of the sky. There’s still small hints of blue between the clouds. All of the beautiful colors reflect a palette into the river. “It’s gonna be okay,” Malcolm says, rubbing Gil’s knee.

Gil squeezes a one-armed hug across his partner’s chest. He knows it will be someday, but it doesn’t really make working through it any easier. “Thanks for trusting me to help.”

“Mmm,” Malcolm’s low buzz vibrates his thigh.

“You falling asleep on me?” Gil jokes.

“Unlikely.”

“Gonna wrap you up in the snuggie when we get home.” Gil rubs Malcolm’s back, hoping to give him some extra warmth with the friction.

Malcolm chuckles. “Jackie gave you that to share with the cat.”

“Seems appropriate to cuddle with you and warm you up.” Malcolm seems pretty catlike to Gil now, but he doesn't chance mentioning it.

“Surprised you still have it.”

“Still have a lot of things.”

“Mmm.”

“We’ll stay as long as you want — let me know when you’re ready to go.”

The geese keep wandering around looking for someone to feed them and hissing when no one will, elaborate displays of feistiness without consequence. The sun dips below the horizon and slowly falls all the way, leaving behind a glow in the sky, then nothing.

Gil nudges Malcolm when it’s fully dark, his breaths evening out making him think the kid’s drifting toward sleep. Malcolm sits up and reflexively puts his pack back over his head, and the two of them fit together to walk home in their own connected company.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
